"Bridget, will you take a lamp and go out and see if you can find it."
"Yes, sir, certainly, and I think I can."
Blessed hope. My friend was curious to know, what in the world I wanted of that piece of paper? "You say, you remember the name and number perfectly, and yet you act as though it was of the utmost value. I recollect seeing you once when you had lost a twenty dollar bill, as cool and careless as though it had been as worthless as this little scrap of paper. Now you act strangely, what can it mean?"
"I don't know—I know I want to see that paper. I cannot tell why."
"Well, you will soon be gratified. She has found it. Do wait, don't be so impatient to meet her at the foot of the stairs."
I did not wait though. I gave one glance at the soiled scrap—it was enough—the pen and ink name had faded out, but there were three words—talismanic words—in pencil marks, evidently added as an after-thought by her who had first written her name in ink—words which sent me out of the door, and half way to the next street, before that voice, sent after me from the stair-head, of "Do stop him, Bridget, he is crazy, to go out in this rain," had reached my ears. It did not stop me—I was gone beyond the reach of her voice. The girl stood amazed. She looked at the scrap of paper with about the same degree of astonishment as did the savage tribe at the white man's paper talk.
"Bring it to me, Bridget."
"He is gone, ma'am."
"Yes, yes, I know he is gone, bring it to me."
"I can't ma'am, he is gone."